Stranger in the House (7 page)

“Sam!” he exclaimed.

Edward Stewart’s head jerked up, and the boat slipped from his hands, landing in the pool with a splash. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

Sam darted off in the direction of the stream at the sound of Edward’s voice. Paul hesitated, thinking of trying to run away, and then, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender, stepped out of the bushes. “I was just looking for my cat, and I saw him in this hedge.”

The man blanched at the sight of the boy and stared at him without speaking.

“I was just coming along, looking for my cat,” Paul repeated helplessly.

The man seemed to relax as Paul spoke, unclenching his fists and clearing his throat. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“Some big mucky-muck,” said Paul.

“Indeed. Well, in future, when you come over here, Paul,” said Edward, looking pleased, “why don’t just announce yourself?”

For a second Paul was taken aback to hear his name. Then his face fell. “You know me,” he said.

The man gave him a thin smile. “My wife and I have been neighbors of your family for some years.” Edward looked at him closely. “Since you were a little boy, in fact. Perhaps you remember me.”

Paul shifted his weight and looked at the ground. “Well, I was young then, when, you know, it happened.”

“Yes,” said Edward. “Of course.”

The man began to stare at him again, and Paul had the uneasy feeling that the man was sizing him up, as if he were an escaped criminal. Paul cast about desperately for something to say. His eyes fell on the boat in the pool. “Is that your boat?” he asked.

“I have a workroom in that windmill over there,” Edward said, gesturing vaguely in the distance. “I’ve made models of some of the world’s greatest sailing vessels.”

“Oh. Great,” said Paul, nodding miserably.

The sound of a shrill, angry voice calling his name filled Paul with an unexpected relief. He and Edward both looked in the direction of the house and saw Tracy coming around the side toward the patio.

Tracy glared at her brother. “Mom’s looking all over for you.”

“I’m coming. I was just looking for my cat.”

“I just passed him,” she said.

“Hello, Tracy,” said Edward.

“Hello, Mr. Stewart. You’d better get home.” Without another word, she turned and headed back around the house. Paul sighed and started to follow her.

“I’ll see you later,” said Edward. Paul did not reply.

Tracy stomped up the porch steps past her mother, who stood clutching the railing.

“He was at the Stewarts’. He’s coming,” said Tracy as she slammed the screen door on her way into the house.

Anna closed her eyes briefly, and her tense frame relaxed. “Thanks, Trace,” she said.

Thomas came through the porch door, dragging his bag of golf clubs. He set them against the railing and began to examine them without looking at Anna.

Anna watched him for a moment. “I replaced the iron,” she said.

“So I see,” said Tom coolly. “Did you find Paul?”

“He was next door. Tracy found him.”

“Oh,” said Tom. He unzipped the pocket on his golf bag, fished around inside it, and pulled out a couple of loose golf balls. “What was he doing over there?”

“I don’t know,” said Anna, leaning back against the railing and studying him. “When did Edward invite you to play golf?” she asked.

“Yesterday. On the way home from the station. I forgot to mention it to you.”

“I doubt Paul knows the first thing about golf,” she said.

Thomas looked at her. “I’ll teach him,” he said.

“I hope Edward doesn’t get exasperated with Paul slowing down the game.” Anna shrugged. “He’s not the most patient person…”

Thomas smiled. “That’s for sure. But he seems very interested in Paul. He said he wanted us to be his guests at the club. Maybe Iris put him up to it.”

“Probably,” Anna agreed, although she had trouble imagining Edward taking any of Iris’s suggestions. “We’re only going to play nine holes. I thought the boy might enjoy it.”

Anna nodded. “I’m hoping we can all go to the beach later.”

Thomas counted the tees in his hand and then put them back into the golf bag. “We can go this afternoon,” he said, “after we get back.”

Anna smiled at him. “I think it’s great,” she said. “You and Paul doing something together.”

Tom sighed. “I hope so,” he said.

“Honey,” she said, “I’m sorry about last night. I meant to come up, but I guess I was so exhausted I fell asleep in the chair.”

“It’s all right,” he said.

“Today is a fresh start,” she said. She gave him a hug, and he returned it, holding on to her for a few moments after she had loosened her grip. She opened the door to the house and was about to go in when she saw Paul coming into the yard. She stopped and watched him as he walked slowly toward the house, murmuring to his pet.

Suddenly, as he reached the grassy spot where the play yard used to be, he stopped. Anna saw the expression on his face change from one of confusion to a grimace. All at once he dropped the cat, and it landed in a crouch on the ground beside him. Paul clapped his hand to his forehead and kneaded his eyebrow with one hand as the frown on his face tightened to a look of pain.

“Tom,” Anna whispered, “there’s something wrong with him.” She let go of the porch door, and it shut with a bang. She hesitated for a moment and then rushed past her husband down the porch steps. She pressed her lips together for a moment, and then she called out to Paul.

“What is it? Are you all right?” The cat looked up at her, but Paul did not meet her eyes. “Yeah,” he said, lowering his hand and walking toward her, his eyes on the ground. He brushed past her and entered the house. There was no trace of color in his complexion. She watched him go into the kitchen and greet Tracy, who was seated at the kitchen table. Tracy mumbled in reply.

Anna clenched her fists and looked back out to where the play yard had once been. The cat sniffed in the grass, carefully traversing the area. It picked its way across the unfamiliar territory, as if suspicious of every stone and weed.

D
ry branches snapped sharply against his bare forearms and flying bugs hovered around Rambo’s face as he worked his way through the dense growth of trees and bushes known to golfers as the rough.

It had not been difficult to find Hidden Woods Lane when he got off the parkway this morning. He had parked his car in a little dirt road that forked off it and waited. He had seen the boy and his father being picked up by the man in the Cadillac and had trailed them to this golf course. He had climbed over a fence to conceal himself in the trees and overgrown bushes along the fairway. He had already gone six holes through the thickets, following the progress of play. It had made him laugh to himself to see the way the boy lagged behind the two men, clearly disinterested in the game, sweating under the sun in that camouflage vest that he always wore. He could see that the Lange man was trying to be patient with the little heathen, but the boy didn’t pay attention to the instructions, trudging along without a smile, his shoulders slumping. He wondered bitterly if the man was satisfied now to have the stubborn little monster back again. The voices began to speak to Rambo once more, railing at the child’s ingratitude and at his return to the land of silver and gold, where evil was called good. His own lips moved to form the words he heard, and he tried to control the muttering which rose from his throat, threatening to expose his hiding place.

Thomas picked up a club and whacked his ball far into the distance toward the seventh green.

Edward shaded his eyes with his hand and watched the ball drop. “You might birdie this hole,” he admitted grudgingly. Thomas turned and handed Paul a club that he had lifted from his bag. They had been trading off shots for the first six holes, Thomas instructing the boy on how to set up a shot and how to swing. Thomas had tried to ignore the boy’s sullen expression and had complimented him frequently on his playing. “Probably want to use this club for this shot. We could be on the green with this one.”

Paul stared at the iron for a minute and then held it away from him. “I’m getting pretty tired,” he said. “Is it okay if I go back?”

Thomas replaced the club in his bag, carefully arranging the heads. “Sure. I guess so.” He looked up at their host. “Can he wait at the clubhouse, Edward?”

Edward Stewart nodded. “Of course,” he replied. “You might want to remove that garment you’re wearing though. Someone will mistake you for a grounds-keeper.”

Paul ignored him, and kept his vest on. “Can I go now?”

“We’re almost done,” said Thomas. “We have only two more holes after this. Are you sure you don’t want to hang in there?”

“No,” said the boy.

“Okay, fine.” Thomas watched Paul as he started slowly back toward the clubhouse.

Rambo thought that he didn’t blame the kid. It seemed a dull game to him. He swatted a bug that was humming around his head and waited impatiently for Edward to shoot.

Edward addressed the ball in front of him, rocking a little on the sides of his feet, and then drew back his club. Rambo shifted lower to watch, and the bushes crackled. Edward swung a little wildly; the ball spun off in a curve down a hill and into a sand trap. Edward colored slightly and cleared his throat. “Did you hear those bushes rustling?” he asked. He looked around at the bushes as if to excoriate them. Then he walked over to the crest of the hill and looked disapprovingly down at the ball, as if it were a badly behaved child. “I guess I’ll have to chip it out,” he said. “You play on. Don’t want to keep your son waiting.”

Thomas rolled his eyes behind his dark glasses and then looked up the fairway where his ball was a tiny speck. “All right,” he said. “I’ll meet you up there.”

Thomas began to stroll by himself up the fairway.

Seeing him pass by, Rambo tingled with anticipation. This was his chance. He licked his lips nervously and peered out between the leaves.

When Thomas was halfway up the fairway, Rambo edged his way over to the sand trap. Edward was treading gingerly into the middle of the sinking surface. Rambo parted the bushes and scurried to the lip of the trap. After looking in every direction, he cleared his throat.

“Hey, you.”

Edward stiffened and stuck his chin out, humiliated at being observed in this predicament. He looked around coldly, prepared to wither with his glance whoever was summoning him. He frowned at the unexpected sight of the pale, nervous man in front of him. The man wore a cheap sport shirt, a baseball cap, and sunglasses. He might have been an aging caddie but for the shoddy black shoes on his feet. The man was clearly not someone of importance. Irritated by the interruption, Edward ignored him.

“You better come over here,” said Rambo, his eyes darting around the sloping emerald hillocks of the course. “I want to talk to you.”

Edward glared at the man and replied with an icy, imperious formality. “If you have any business being here, sir, you had better make it known to me immediately. If not, please leave these grounds. They are private, and you are interrupting my game.”

Rambo stared at Edward. He raised one finger and shook it at him. “The word of the Lord is my business,” Rambo chanted at him. “The Lord’s justice is my aim!”

Edward heaved his shoulders in a sigh and shook his head. “If you know what’s good for you, sir,” said Edward, “you will go peddle your shibboleths elsewhere and get off this golf course this instant.” He turned his back on Rambo and addressed the half-buried golf ball.

“The Lord has spoke to me. The Lord has given me a sign, not once, but twice, that I must render His justice unto you.”

“I’m warning you,” said Edward in a menacing voice.

“Your evil, your wicked ways. Easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man—”

“That’s it,” said Edward, jamming his club in the sand and turning around to shake a finger at Rambo. “I’m having you bodily thrown out of here.”

Rambo took a step back. “I saw you,” Rambo hissed at him. “That day on the highway. Eleven years ago. I know what you did.”

Edward stopped short. His face turned ashen under the brim of his golf cap. His knuckles went white as he gripped the shaft of the club for support.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Edward whispered.

“To the boy, your friend’s son,” said Rambo, flinging his arm wildly back behind him, the direction in which Paul had gone. “I was there in the bushes that day taking a leak. I saw it all.”

Edward stared at the man, his body vibrating like a violin string. Suddenly he realized why the man looked vaguely familiar. Newspaper pictures of the wiry man, always wearing a hat. “Rambo,” he breathed.

“That’s right,” cried Rambo triumphantly. “Albert Rambo. The voice of the Lord on this earth.”

An incredible gnawing had started in Edward’s stomach as he tried to absorb the shock of Rambo’s words. It occurred to him, as his mind raced, that Rambo must be mad to have dared come here with Thomas and the boy so close by. He is mad, Edward thought.

But he knows.

Edward licked his lips several times and tried to think. But his brain seemed able to register nothing but glaring lights, offering only exposure, not refuge. “You are mistaken, sir,” said Edward indignantly. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“The Lord has a mission for me,” Rambo cried. “I have work to do. I must complete His work. Yesterday the Lord spoke to me through the television…”

Edward felt as if an avenging angel had swooped down on him, threatening to destroy all he had gained. The day that he had always secretly dreaded had now come to pass. He forced himself to remain calm, reminding himself that this was a madman in front of him. “You heard God’s voice through the television. Come now, Mr. Rambo,” he said, with a condescending chuckle. “I doubt they would entertain that kind of testimony in court.”

Rambo gazed down at the man in the sand trap. “I will have justice. The sword of righteousness will descend upon you. All the elders of the temple will see and know that the blood is on your hands and I am innocent as the lamb….”

A shudder raced through Edward as the man raved on. His stomach was churning, but he knew that he needed to regain control of this situation. “Come now, Mr. Rambo. You’re no innocent lamb and neither amI. If justice was all you wanted, you would have gone to the police. Why are you really here?” he said. “Is it possible that there is a certain price tag for your silence?”

“Filthy lucre?” Rambo thundered. “The truth has a price beyond rubies….”

“Who else knows about this?” Edward demanded. “Get a hold of yourself and answer me.”

Edward’s bluntness seemed to jolt Albert back into reality for a moment. “Nobody. Just me. Dorothy Lee knew. She was with me when it happened. But she’s gone now. And the boy knows, I guess you could say.” Albert nodded to himself and rocked back and forth.

“You told him what happened?”

“He was there, wasn’t he? Maybe he remembers. I don’t know. Otherwise, nobody.”

“You were following the boy and you recognized me,” Edward said, half to himself.

“No,” Rambo scoffed. “I told you. I saw you on the TV. You and your fancy car. On the news.”

“The TV?” For a moment, Edward was confused. Then, he recalled the interview at the Langes’, his Cadillac visible behind them in the driveway. He stifled a groan, remembering how he had been convinced to appear in the interview. There was a roaring in his head, but he spoke calmly.

“Mr. Rambo, you seem to have it in your head that I committed some sort of crime, when in fact, you are the man whom the police are looking for. I don’t really understand,” he said, picking up the golf ball and rolling it around in the palm of his hand, “how you figure you can go to the police with your so-called information. Given the fact that you face life in prison for kidnapping if you are caught.”

“Well,” Rambo dissembled, “I might not tell them directly.”

Edward stared at his tormentor, and for the first time he began to feel his power, his control, returning. Rambo was a shabby, pathetic little man. A weak, sniveling creature. He reminded himself that he was infinitely superior to this nobody who threatened him. “How are you going to tell them?” Edward inquired. “Call in an anonymous tip?”

“I’ve got a way,” Rambo insisted defiantly. He kneaded one bony hand with the other.

Edward trained his steely gaze on Rambo, who was shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. He seemed disoriented and a little frightened, as if he were the one who had been cornered. “I don’t think so,” said Edward in a cold voice. “I don’t think you do.”

Rambo’s face sagged as his voice rose. “Just give me some money,” he cried, “or I’ll show you.” He fumbled in the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a cigarette and some matches. He thrust the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. He drew on the cigarette furiously, as if it were providing oxygen, rather than cutting it off.

“Let me tell you something, Mr. Rambo,” said Edward in a cutting voice. “I belong to the finest social circles in this town. I have money and power, to be blunt. Who do you think would take your word over mine?”

A dose of spirit seemed to revive Rambo at Edward’s words. “What will you do on the day of punishment?” he railed. “To whom will you flee for help, and where will you leave your wealth?”

Edward drew himself up and thundered over Rambo’s chant, “You are a criminal on the run. A fugitive. A wanted man.”

Rambo’s shoulders slumped, as if his last outburst had exhausted him.

Edward felt the battle waning. “When you really think about it,” said Edward slowly, “it’s a preposterous idea.”

Rambo stared helplessly at his intended quarry. “I need some money,” he whined.

“I’m sure you do,” Edward snarled. “But you won’t get it from me. I’m not afraid of you. Now get out of here, before I call the police.”

Rambo gaped at him for a moment as if trying to formulate a reply. “The day of punishment is at…” he mumbled.

“Now,” Edward commanded. Rambo began to back away. When he reached the bushes, he turned and bolted into the trees. Edward could hear him crashing through the rough, like a rabbit fleeing from a pack of hounds.

Edward looked down at the golf ball in his hand. Drawing his arm back behind him, he threw the ball up and away, as far as he could toward the fairway. Then he scrambled out of the sand trap.

He saw Thomas standing up near the green, scanning the course. Plastering a smile on his face, Edward waved to Thomas, indicating that he was out of the trap and about to make his next shot. He selected a club from his bag.

As he was about to position himself over the ball, he noticed a little square of white on the edge of the grass bordering the sand trap. He walked over to it, squatted down carefully, and picked it up. Then he examined it. The object he held in his hand was a matchbook with
LA-Z PINES MOTEL, KINGSBURGH, NEW YORK
printed on it in letters formed by miniature logs.
GUS DEBLAKEY, PROP
. He stuffed the matchbook deliberately into his pocket.

Edward licked his lips and then gazed into the bushes where Rambo had disappeared. He saw it all, Edward thought again with a shudder. He saw me. He knows what I did.

“Do you like the beach, Paul?” Anna asked as Tracy and Paul got out of the car and Tracy started across the narrow road to the boardwalk that protected the dunes.

“I’ve never been,” he replied, shouldering the aluminum-framed beach chair.

He looks like a waif, Anna thought. He was standing beside the car, wearing high sneakers without socks, a pair of black cutoffs, and his camouflage vest, despite the heat.

Anna lifted the plastic picnic basket out of the trunk. “I’ll bet you’ll be coming to the beach a lot from now on. We’ll get you a beach pass and a bathing suit. Right, Tom?”

Thomas shut the door on the driver’s side and adjusted his sunglasses over his eyes. “What?”

Anna handed the picnic basket to Thomas as Paul followed Tracy across the road. “You’re awfully quiet,” she said.

“Just thinking,” he said as they followed the path of the teenagers.